Little Black Heart
by Anti-Materiel Girl
Summary: An evil FLW and Charon find each other abhorrent, but that doesn't mean they can't take care of business. Pure smut. Rated M, of course.


He hears the sheets rustle in the dark, the soft moans as she pleasures herself.

He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth, and tries to think of anything to distract him from those noises. He hates himself for wanting her – her blood-stained hands, her corrupted soul; her little black heart tempts him so. He hears a strangled moan and then, thankfully, the noises stop.

When he first saw her, he hated her. When he got to know her better, he started to think that she was worse than Ahzrukhal. Even back then, when she swaggered into the Ninth Circle with a chip on her shoulder and a scoped .44 on her hip, he wondered what was hidden under her armor. Every now and then, he'd catch her staring at him, her eyes wandering south. He knows that she's just as curious as he is.

 _She's brave enough to take on a nest of deathclaws_ he thinks, but she hasn't yet found the courage to invite him into her bed. Maybe it doesn't have anything at all to do with courage, though – maybe it's simply disgust that keeps her from satisfying her curiosity. He's sure that despite her obvious interest, she finds his appearance as grotesque as he finds her lack of morals. She's said as much.

What makes him hate her even more is that she flaunts her sexuality every time she's given an opportunity. She dangles it in front of him cruelly, like dangling meat in front of a starving dog. His face twists into an ugly grimace as he recalls all the nights she forced him to spend standing on the balcony, listening in silent agony as she gave to other men freely what he could only dream of having. The little gutter slut would fuck anything that moved – anything except him.

Her husky voice pierces his reverie. "Come here."

"Yes Mistress." He stops a foot from the bed, and she flips on the lamp, revealing her naked body to him. She's sitting up against the headboard, her slender legs crossed at the ankle. His eyes are drawn to the dark crease between them.

She follows his gaze and crosses her arms under her breasts, pushing them up, purposefully distracting him. "Charon…were you listening to me?"

"Yes." He admits. He cannot lie to her, no matter how much he wants to.

She smiles, wickedly. "You've been listening to me for a long time, haven't you?"

He scowls. "Yes."

"You hate me." She tilts her head to the side, tossing her long dark hair. "You must hate yourself for wanting me." His expression says it all. She takes one of her pink nipples and pinches it, rolls it between a thumb and forefinger in a parody of absentmindedness. When his face twitches, she laughs. "I'm curious, " she muses. "Is fucking me worth the price of your self-respect?"

He's wanted it so long that the question isn't difficult to answer. "Yes."

She smirks and uncrosses her legs, revealing her glistening sex to his hungry eyes. "Well, " she says, "what are you waiting for – an invitation?"

He reaches out with both hands and snatches her delicate ankles, dragging her to him as she kicks and clutches at the bedsheets in surprise. He wraps one massive hand around her soft neck; a gentle warning squeeze quiets her. Even though she knows that he can't hurt her – the contract and all – the power in his hands makes her realize that he could kill her with little effort. She can't help the thrill she gets from that tinge of fear in her heart. She's playing with fire. As vile as she thinks he is, she's loving every second of it.

He unbuckles his belt with one hand, and with two gentle tugs his trousers pool around his ankles. As he removes his hand from her neck and settles himself between her legs, she has to force panic back down into the deep recesses of her brain. He sneers down at her. "Is my self-respect worth your dignity, little Vault Girl?"

"Fuck you, shuffler!" she taunts.

He smirks at the epithet. "Your wish is my command." Determined to make her pay for every bit of her cruelty to him, he enters her slowly, thrilled by the long, low moan that arises unbidden from her delicate throat. Her heart is beating fast, her nostrils flaring, her breath coming in gasps and moans. "Ah!" She grasps the bedsheets in mindless pursuit of physical pleasure. She's making sounds that he's only heard before through a closed door – except this time, she's making these sounds for him. No, because of him, and what he's doing with her. Doing _to her_. He realizes that her eyes are shut tightly, head turned to the side, and he slows, stops. "Open your eyes." He orders, harshly. An expression of pure disgust consumes her angelic features as she shakes her head vigorously. He growls at her as he grabs her head, wrenches it forward. "You cruel, heartless _cunt_." He thrusts into her hard, for emphasis.

"You…filthy…rotten…corpse!" She snarls between breaths, struggling beneath him.

"Look at me." He commands. She closes her eyes tighter. "Coward." He spits out the word with distaste. Disgust. Hatred. "Own your shame, you dirty little whore." _The shame of wanting a ghoul._ Her sapphire eyes flash open, and she roars at him like an animal as he begins to thrust into her enthusiastically, encouraged by her surge of vigor. The headboard slams hard against the wall with each of his brutal thrusts and her fingernails dig into his biceps, the rough, torn skin under her hands both repulsive and thrilling at the same time.

Out of instinct she wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him in closer, deeper. To her horror, she begins to feel a delicious warmth spreading deep inside her. As the blissful sensation overcomes her, her eyelids close and her head rolls back. Savoring her helplessness, her blind panic at the imminent loss of control at his hands, he growls as he thrusts faster, deeper.

Screaming, she bucks underneath him, her whole body stiffening, the stars behind her eyes spreading as her moist interior squeezes him savagely. Two more deep, painful thrusts and he looses himself into her with a feral bellow.

They lay there, panting. "Get the fuck off me," she groans. He lifts himself up, hikes up his pants. "Get me something to clean up with," she orders. He swaggers into the bathroom and finds a washcloth, wets it with warm water, and wrings it out. He glances at himself in the mirror and smiles – _I paid a dear price tonight_ , he thinks, _but it was worth it_. She smiles and nods as he hands her the washcloth, and he informs her that he wishes to take a shower. She grants him this request. His showers are cold and short, and by the time he gets out, she'll be ready to hop in.

Even from his first sidelong glance at her in that grimy bar, he knew that she would never surrender her little black heart to him.

But that's okay. Her heart isn't what he wants.


End file.
